


the more things seem to change (the more they stay the same)

by ashspren



Series: California AU [1]
Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: "dude" but romantically, ...crazy RICH, Achilles is a disaster, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, California, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Patroclus is smart, Patroclus speaks fluent sarcasm, SO MUCH FLUFF, Weddings, badass Aphrodite, but also dumb, but also just crazy, god dude they're so in love, heart of gold & dumb of ass, the Olympian family is crazy, yeah dude like totally man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:08:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29079135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashspren/pseuds/ashspren
Summary: Achilles turns back to Patroclus. “So. Not too bad, right? We can keep this up for tomorrow?”Can Patroclus keep this up? Yes. What will it cost? His sanity, dignity, and potentially a few years off his life.He grins. “Yeah. We make a pretty handsome couple.”~~~When Achilles asks Patroclus to be his date for his rich, eccentric great-uncle’s seventh wedding, Patroclus can see the rationale––they’re best friends, and they’ve been inseparable for years. It's intended as a small favor.There’s one catch, though: It’s all fake. But Patroclus is actually in love with Achilles, and this very well may kill him.A Californian, fake-dating, modern high school AU in which Patroclus deals with Achilles’s crazy family andbarelysurvives his not-so-unrequited feelings.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus, Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles), Achilles/Patroclus of Opus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Series: California AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2133468
Comments: 33
Kudos: 187





	the more things seem to change (the more they stay the same)

“My uncle,” Achilles declares, “is the sexiest senior citizen alive.” 

Patroclus places his milkshake down on the table. “Let’s pretend like you never said that, and I won’t have to Amazon Now™ some brain bleach. Thanks.”

Achilles leans across their booth at In-N-Out, resting his forearms on the table. “Nope.” 

“Yep.” 

“Nope.”

“Yep.” 

“Okay fine, but this is interesting,” he whines. His hair falls into his eyes, and Patroclus resists the urge to push it off his forehead. 

Patroclus sighs. “The things I do for you, man.” 

The things he does for Achilles, indeed. There’s not much Patroclus wouldn’t do for his best friend. The only thing off the table is murder, and even that’s up for debate. It comes down to a single fact: He knows Achilles would do the same for him. Some people call it love. Patroclus would point out that a similar relationship might exist between two holders of equally horrible blackmail, but those aforementioned people probably aren’t too far off. Probably. Maybe. 

Achilles isn’t privy to Patroclus’s internal struggle, though, and he steals his french fries like one of those asshole seagulls on the pier. “Okay, so. He’s getting married.” 

“Again?” 

“Yeah.” 

“He’s like… sixty. Or older.”

“Yeah dude, I know. He’s  _ my uncle _ ––” 

“Shut up,” Patroclus says. “This is just the fourth wedding of his that I’ve heard about. That’s four weddings in like, I don’t know, twelve years.” 

Achilles smirks. “Not to mention the three he had before we were born. Lucky number seven?” 

Patroclus snorts. “Doubt it.” He passes some more fries to Achilles, who’s in the process of trying to steal another handful. “Besides, that doesn’t make him sexy. He’s just rich.” 

Achilles raises an eyebrow in honest, serious contemplation. “You’re right. Know of any quick ways to make a ton of cash?” 

“Yeah, just respond to that email about the chest of diamonds and your long-lost heritage as a Greek prince,” Patroclus deadpans. 

“Hey!” Achilles protests, but he’s grinning. “How else am I supposed to woo you into being my date to the wedding?” 

“You’re so full of shit,” Patroclus laughs. He looks across the table at Achilles, whose expression is… guilty?

“Surprise?” 

“Wait, you’re serious?” This might be the best day of Patroclus’s life. Achilles bought him In-N-Out, asked him out, and––

“Yes, but also no?” 

Oh. Whatever. Wow, that was a really weird train of thought, haha. Time to blow up the train tracks, James Bond villain-style, and never think of it again. Cool cool cool. 

Patroclus screams internally, but he thinks he does a really good job of keeping his face blank. “I’m not really catching your drift right now.” 

Achilles huffs out a breath. “Okay, so. His fianceé, some woman named… Himalia, I think? Anyway. She only wants people to come if they bring a date, probably because of what happened at the  _ last _ wedding, y’know––” 

Patroclus  _ does _ , in fact, know. He was there. He was twelve and bored. He helped set up the catapult. Thankfully, he can deny any involvement in obtaining slices of wedding cake, even if they were his choice of projectile. 

He’s not sorry, though. Lamia was a monster who devoured the hopes and dreams of children. Twelve-year-old Achilles and his cousins didn’t like her, and Patroclus just wanted to help out where he could. Lamia deserved it. He does think, however, that Zeus’s first wife Hera might have done something to antagonize her? Maybe? Achilles’s family is  _ weird _ , man. Patroclus would stay as far away from it as possible, but it’s entertaining. Like a disaster you can’t help but watch, or those Instagram videos of people burning things.

“––but basically, my mom still wants me to go,” Achilles is saying, “so I need a date. And I don’t want to ask anyone else, so yeah.” 

“Wow.” 

“TL;DR, be my fake date for a weekend?” 

“No one says ‘TL;DR’ out loud, dude.” 

“Whatever. Is that a yes?”

Patroclus is weak as  _ shit _ ; this is so totally pathetic, it’s not even funny. “Yeah, why not, I guess.” 

~~~

Uncle Zeus lives in Palm Springs, because he’s retired, rich, and owns enough golf clubs to arm the entire population of Luxembourg. 

“I’m driving,” Patroclus decides, arms crossed over his T-shirt. “You dragged me into this shit, so I get to drive the nice car.”

Achilles sighs dejectedly, but he slides into the passenger’s seat. It’s a Porsche convertible, because the Phthia family has a lot of money, and the Olympian family has even more money, so Achilles is basically loaded. 

Patroclus would die to have this car. Peleus, Achilles’s dad, uses it for work––he’s the CEO of a big real estate company that their family owns––and it is literally the vehicle of his dreams. Red exterior. Black interior. Convertible. Achilles almost spilled coffee in it once, and Patroclus almost kicked his ass for that. 

(“It’s  _ my  _ car!”

“Okay, first of all, it’s your  _ dad’s _ , and second of all, I love it too much for you to deface it in such a cruel way.”)

Peleus doesn’t have to go to the wedding. He was invited, even though Zeus is on Achilles’s mom’s side of the family, and they had divorced years ago. But he hates the Olympians even more than Patroclus, so he scheduled an “extremely important business conference in New York” this weekend. 

(“Between you and me,” he told Achilles and Patroclus, “I actually do have a conference in New York. But Thetis doesn’t believe me, and oh my  _ God,  _ it’s hilarious. Don’t give me away. Please.”) 

Thetis is Achilles’s mom and Peleus’s ex-wife. She’s a Senator too, and she splits time between Sacramento and D.C. Patroclus is… not thrilled about the prospect of seeing her again. 

Anyway, Peleus took an Uber to LAX and left his beautiful, gorgeous, fit-for-the-gods car to them. Maybe there’s some sort of metaphor or life lesson that’s happening here, something about responsibility and adulthood  and romantic drives with the love of your life who isn’t actually the love of your life (yet) , but Patroclus can’t keep his thoughts from centering around three things: 

  1. He’s accompanying Achilles, his best friend, to his sixty-plus-year-old uncle’s seventh wedding.   
  

  2. He’s accompanying Achilles, his best friend, to his sixty-plus-year-old uncle’s seventh wedding in the world’s most amazing car.   
  

  3. He’s accompanying Achilles, his best friend, to his sixty-plus-year-old uncle’s seventh wedding in the world’s most amazing car as his _date._ Fake date. Whatever, everything’s going to be totally fine.



~~~

Patroclus has seen this type of fake-dating thing in movies before. Usually, the car ride is filled with quizzes on relatives and family history and that kind of stuff. But he probably knows more than Achilles does about the Olympian family, mostly because he’s been to more than one of their family gatherings and is afraid of offending someone. Achilles doesn’t have to worry about that. 

Instead, they spend the next two hours scream-singing songs on the radio and arguing over directions. 

“The map says you’re  _ supposed _ to stay on the 215!” 

“Are you  _ stupid? _ That’s how you get to, like, Temecula––”

“Okay, well, what are you on right now?” 

“Nothing, but you must be on  _ something _ because you’re hallucinating th––”

“No, dipshit, I meant what  _ highway.”  _

“Oh. The 60. East.” 

“Yeah, you’re good.” 

It’s a fun time, honestly. 

Achilles does some homework while using Patroclus as a human calculator—

(“What’s thirty-eight times three?” 

“You’re in  _ AP Stats––” _

“So?” 

An exasperated sigh. “114.”), 

—but he puts his books and stuff away as they get onto the higher-altitude, windier roads. “So we’re alone at the hotel tonight, and then we’ll need to be at the ceremony by 3:15 tomorrow,” Achilles explains. “We have a full breakfast package, and we’re doing dinner at the wedding, then leaving after that. Sound okay?”

“Yeah. What time is it?”

“...5:37.”

“Alright, cool.” 

When they pull into the hotel valet, some of the staff take their duffels, and they head over to the reception desk to check in. 

“Achilles,” says a warm voice from the side. Patroclus would recognize it anywhere––usually, though, it sends chills down his spine. 

“Mom!” Achilles turns to face her and grins. He looks back at Patroclus quickly to ask, “Can I––”

“Yeah,” Patroclus says, smiling. Achilles really loves his mom, even if Thetis would murder Patroclus with a plastic knife at her earliest convenience. 

Patroclus grabs their room keys and obligatorily accepts the weekend activity schedule from the receptionist, then debates whether he should rejoin Achilles or run away in terror. (Un)luckily, Achilles makes that decision for him. 

“Patroclus!” he calls. “C’mere!” 

Fuck. Okay.

Patroclus walks over, and Thetis is looking at him judgmentally. “Hello, Patroclus.” 

“Hi, Thetis. It’s good to see you again.” 

“It is not. Don’t lie to me.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“So anyway!” Achilles cuts in. “You guys need to be, like... civil for a weekend. Can we do that?”

“We already are,” Thetis says dismissively.

“We are not,” Patroclus counters. Thetis sighs.

“Okay, either way, I don’t care. Mom, Patroclus is my date for the wedding.”

The color visibly drains from Thetis’s face. “He’s what?”

Achilles throws up his hands in exasperation. “You said I needed a date! So I brought Patroclus.”

Patroclus waves sarcastically, and he can’t resist giving a small smirk.

“I...” Thetis begins. She rubs her temples, like she has a headache. “Fine.”

“Great! Now hug it out,” Achilles prompts. 

Thetis and Patroclus give him equally horrified looks. 

“I’m serious!” he continues. “No one’s going to buy this if you’re not on good terms. Mom, you dragged us into this. Now hug.” 

Patroclus and Thetis awkwardly move closer and pat each other on the back. 

“There!” Achilles sounds satisfied. “Was that so hard?”

“Yes,” they answer in unison. 

This is going to be a really long weekend.

~~~

Patroclus, Achilles, and Thetis all take the same elevator. It’s awkward. 

Apparently, Zeus has rented out the entire twelfth floor of the hotel for his wedding guests. The amount of money this guy has is honestly insane. Patroclus and Achilles are sharing a room, and Thetis has one at the opposite end of the hall. When the elevator doors open, she practically launches herself out to get away from Patroclus. He’s relieved. 

When Patroclus and Achilles get to their room (1200 exactly, which Achilles is way too excited about), they argue over who gets to swipe the room key––

(“It’s  _ my _ turn––” 

“We haven’t been in a hotel together since we were like, fourteen––”

“So?”

“Well, I drove!” 

“Because you _ wanted _ to!”)

––so Achilles literally picks Patroclus up with one arm and moves him to the side before opening the door himself. With  _ one arm.  _

If Patroclus dies a little bit inside, he just ignores it. 

When they enter the room, Achilles promptly flops down onto the bed while Patroclus grabs the TV remote. It’s your standard, one-king-sized-bed hotel room––small enough to be convenient but big enough to not be cramped. 

“Food Network?”

“Sure,” Achilles says, voice muffled by a pillow. 

Patroclus examines the channel guide. “You should go hang up our suits and stuff before they get wrinkled.” 

“Why can’t you do it?” 

“You opened the door.” 

“But I picked you up to do that,” Achilles groans. Even still, Patroclus can see Achilles beginning to stand up. “That took effort.” 

“I didn’t ask you to.” 

Achilles complains some more under his breath but walks over to their suitcases. “You’re paying for dinner tonight.” 

“Sure.”  _ Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives _ begins playing in the background. It doesn’t really concern him, though. Either way, Achilles would never let––

“No wait that was a joke, of course I––” 

~~~

There’s a nice little Italian place about five minutes away, so they decide to go there. Achilles drives this time, and when they get there, he opens Patroclus’s door for him and  _ it’s not adorable don’t you  _ dare _ think that it’s adorable because it’s not. Fucking. Adorable. _

“Wow,” he says. “Guess I didn’t screw up too badly in the fake boyfriend department.” 

Achilles lets out a short laugh. “Hell yeah, I’m the best fake boyfriend around.” The words sound strained.

“You good, man?” 

“Yeah, totally.” 

“Okay.” Silence. “So should we head inside?” 

They’re seated at a table on the patio. A waiter gives them menus and pours water, someone brings them bread that they’ll definitely eat too much of before their actual food gets there, they place their orders, and Patroclus is going to make some dumb joke about how this feels like a wonderful fake date when––

“Hold my hand,” Achilles hisses. His hand lunges out to grab Patroclus’s, which is sitting on the table, useless. 

“Dude,  _ what––” _

Achilles subtly points his butter knife towards a nearby table. The people there look vaguely familiar. “Ares and Aphrodite.” 

Achilles’s cousin and his fiancée. He hasn’t met Aphrodite before, but Ares is pretty chill now––much different than the macho-man-but-also-sensitive-crybaby phase he went through as a teenager. Aphrodite seems to be very elegant and poised, gracefully digging a dessert spoon into a chocolate lava cake. She has good taste––Patroclus can give her that right off the bat. 

As fate (or the cruel, cruel injustice of a harsh and unfeeling world) would have it, Aphrodite notices them and starts walking over to their table, stilettos clicking on the patio. “Achilles,  _ darling!” _ , she says teasingly. 

So the fake-dating charade (and Patroclus’s untimely demise) is starting earlier than he expected. Cool. 

(Yeah, right. This is a red alert red alert he is  _ so not okay _ right now what the shit is he even supposed to do just sit there and hold hands with Achilles like yeah okay fine but it’s really not fine because he’s going to scream and it’s a little bit cold right now so how are his hands so warm and now Patroclus’s face is warm because oh no oh shit he’s blushing did he say he wasn’t okay because he’s like literally not okay.)

Achilles sends her an easygoing smile. “Hey Aphrodite, how are you?”

Patroclus feels a faint  _ bzzt _ and checks his phone under the table. A text from Achilles.  _ She’s like 24 why is she calling me darling _

_ Bc you are one ;) _ , he responds, sending a brief thank-you to high school for (unwittingly) teaching him how to text without looking and one-handed. 

“Better than ever. And you?” She smiles in a conspiratorial sort of way. “Are you going to introduce your handsome date?” 

Patroclus sets his phone down on his lap and extends his hand. “Hi, I’m Patroclus. It’s so nice to finally meet you.” 

Aphrodite reciprocates with a firm grip, inclining her head gracefully. “Likewise.” 

“Wait, sorry—” Ares makes his way over. “You’re dating now?” 

Achilles takes a sip of his water. “Yeah. Uh, recent thing.” 

“Fucking finally,” Ares mutters. He turns to Patroclus and nods. “Good to see you again, Pat.” 

What does that mean. Ares. What the  _ fuck _ does that mean.

“Yeah, you too.” 

“We’ll leave you two alone now,” Aphrodite says easily, orchestrating effortlessly what would usually be an awkward end to the conversation. “But we just thought we’d come over and say hello. I’m sure we’ll see you at the wedding tomorrow, right?” 

Achilles nods. “Of course.” 

They walk out, Aphrodite waving and smiling dazzlingly. Achilles turns back to Patroclus. “So. Not too bad, right? We can keep this up for tomorrow?” 

Can Patroclus keep this up? Yes. What will it cost? His sanity, dignity, and potentially a few years off his life.

He grins. “Yeah. We make a pretty handsome couple.” 

~~~

The next morning, Patroclus wakes up to sunlight streaming through the sliding glass door and a strong, tan arm wrapped around his waist. He’d roll his eyes if he wasn’t about to fall back asleep. No matter how many times they’ve shared a bed, Achilles has never learned to keep to his own side. 

It’s totally annoying, Patroclus thinks as he snuggles into the thin fabric of Achilles’s T-shirt. They even made a pillow barrier, he adds as Achilles’s arm shifts to pull him tighter. Not cute at all, he insists as he falls back asleep. 

~~~

When Patroclus wakes up for real, it’s to Achilles shaking Patroclus so hard he probably has a minor concussion. “Wake up wake up wake  _ up _ wake _ up  _ w––”

“I’m  _ up _ ,” Patroclus grumbles. “Time?” 

“11:30.”

“The _fuck,_ man,” he groans. “Wedding’s not ‘til like… three.”

Achilles’s hair is falling down into his face, and Patroclus can count the tiny, almost-invisible freckles that smatter across his cheekbones. He looks cute and soft in the mornings, and Patroclus is powerless to stop himself from dwelling on that. 

“Yeah,” Achilles says, “but I’m bored.” 

“Fine.” Patroclus lethargically drags himself out of bed. “I’ll shower, you get breakfast.” 

“I don’t wanna go all the way to the lobby,” Achilles groans.

“Room service.” 

“Not part of the breakfast package. And it’s lunch by now, anyway.”” 

“Tough luck, dude.”

Achilles sighs in feigned exasperation. “The things I do for you, Patroclus. The things I do for you.” He changes into jeans and slips on a pair of flip flops. 

“Love you.” 

“No, you don’t.” 

“You’re right.” 

His cry of mock outrage is the last thing Patroclus hears before Achilles leaves the room. 

~~~

Shower thoughts. 

They’ve always treated Patroclus well. He won his fifth grade science fair because of shower thoughts. He made the varsity volleyball team as a freshman because of shower thoughts. He survived junior year because of shower thoughts. He came up with his college essay prompt because of shower thoughts. 

Maybe they can help him get through this. 

_ Alright, Patroclus _ , his internal-therapist-narrative instructs him. He squeezes some of the hotel shampoo in his hand. It smells like eucalyptus and orange, or something like that.  _ The first thing you can do is admit what the problem is.  _

Well, that’s easy. He’s Achilles’s fake date for the weekend. And that’s an issue because… he doesn’t want to be Achilles’s fake date. 

_ And what can we do to fix that? _

Um… nothing? 

Patroclus rinses off the last of the soap (lavender-and-grapefruit-scented, a daring complement to the shampoo) and dries himself off with one of the fluffy white towels. 

The worst part is, he actually does know exactly what the problem is. He’s even admitted it to himself before, albeit offhandedly. 

He’s in love with Achilles. 

_ For fuck’s sake,  _ his internal-therapist-narrative says.  _ Was it  _ that _ hard? Couldn’t we have done that, like, two minutes ago?  _

No.

_ Now say it out loud.  _

No!

_ Why not? _

Because that’s awkward! And scary! And just really weird! 

_ Say it.  _

No. 

_ Say it. _

_ … _

“I’m in love with Achilles,” Patroclus says to his reflection in the fogged-up mirror. Out loud. 

Then he gags, watches his face twist into some sort of disgusted expression, feels his face flush, and laughs. That was  _ awful _ , oh my God, he’s never doing that again. 

Doesn’t make it any less true, though. 

~~~

Achilles looks good. 

Well, let’s be honest. Achilles  _ always _ looks good. But Achilles in a tux? That’s just unfair. 

Patroclus is walking a very fine, very  _ dangerous _ line between attraction and jealousy right now. 

What’s even worse is that–– okay, sometimes people say they like certain clothes or colors on people because they “bring out their eyes” or “complement their skin tone” or something. There is absolute zero reason whatsoever as to why navy blue should look  _ so good _ on Achilles. His eyes are green. Green like… grass? Frogs? Apple-flavored Jolly Ranchers? Seaweed?

There’s a reason why Patroclus isn’t a poet, okay. 

He pretends that he’s not freaking the fuck out internally and, with a measure of practiced calmness that can only come with secretly pining after someone for years, asks, “You ready?” 

“Um,” Achilles says, frozen in place. It’s weird, because he’s usually such a dynamic person, never still and always comfortable. “I–– uh.”

Patroclus didn’t do anything super weird in the past five minutes, right? Like, he’s been acting like a normal person? “Is there something on my face?”

“Yeah–– uh, no. You look amazing. I— I mean, you’re fine. Nothing on your face. Let’s go.” 

Achilles holds the door open for Patroclus as they walk out. As soon as the door shuts, Achilles reaches down and laces their fingers together. 

Patroclus looks over to him in confusion.

“Someone could walk by soon,” Achilles says with a shrug, not meeting Patroclus’s eyes. He pushes the elevator button and the doors slide open a moment later. 

It’s a sound enough argument. Maybe he also wants to piss off his mom, who’s walking down the hall towards the elevators. 

Patroclus resists the urge to groan. Two awkward elevator moments with Thetis within a 24-hour period. That’s not something he would wish upon his worst enemy. Despite that––and contrary to what Thetis believes––he’s been raised well, so he reaches his arm out to keep the doors from closing. 

Thetis is glowering at their conjoined hands. “This could wait until the wedding, you know. Also, couples don’t always have to hold hands.” 

Patroclus slides an arm around Achilles’s waist in retaliation, cocking an eyebrow at her. Mirrors make up the top two-thirds of the elevator’s walls; out of the corner of his eye, Patroclus can see their reflections. Thetis’s face is scrunched in contempt (and honestly, mood). Achilles is… blushing? His face is flushed a little bit pink right over his cheekbones. It’s cute. Probably just the light, though.

Achilles pulls away when they get to the lobby, and Patroclus mourns the lack of contact, even as their hands come together again. They walk out the back of the building. 

The ceremony is being held on one of the grassy lawns of the hotel, near—characteristically—a golf course. “He owns this place, the fucking cheapskate. He doesn’t have to pay a dime for the entire venue,” Thetis mutters angrily. “I hope he dies as he lived: surrounded entirely by money.” 

“I don’t think that’s the insult you think it is, Mom,” Achilles says. She rolls her eyes in response. 

For all that Thetis is insulting it, the setup is actually pretty nice. A bit more quaint than Patroclus would have suspected, but hey—apparently, having seven weddings tires a dude out. Especially when he’s, like, ancient. 

“Achilles, Patroclus!” It’s Aphrodite, who’s dragging Ares over towards them from the right. She gives them each a brief hug and kiss on the cheek, then turns to Thetis. “You must be Ares’s Aunt Thetis. It’s so nice to finally meet you. I’m Aphrodite.” 

The two women shake hands. “Pleasure,” Thetis says with a nod. She acknowledges Ares in the same manner before excusing herself to talk to one of her sisters. 

“It must be so nice to have siblings,” Aphrodite notes. “I’m an only child.” 

“Same,” Achilles and Patroclus say simultaneously. 

Ares sighs. “Second oldest of nine, if you count all my half-siblings. Or somewhere in the middle of twenty-something. It depends who you ask.” 

“It is… dynamic, for sure,” Aphrodite agrees with an amused expression. “Achilles, how many siblings does your mother have? It can’t be more than Ares—”

“Fifty.” 

Aphrodite laughs, a pleasant, tinkling sound. 

“He’s serious,” Ares adds, scrolling through his phone. 

She goes silent. “Oh. That’s… a lot.” 

Achilles nods. “Lots of Christmas presents. I’m not complaining.” 

“I can see why she’d only have one kid, then,” Aphrodite says. “I mean, imagine having to  _ raise _ that many people. That’s ins––” 

“Shit,” Ares cuts in. “Apollo’s here. Just texted us. Hide before he can tell you to stream his new song on Spotify, ‘Fuck Your Boyfriend, I’m Better’ or something like that.” 

“Um, ex- _ cuse _ me, dear brother-of-mine.” It’s a new voice in the conversation, but one with which Patroclus is all too familiar. “It’s called ‘idc abt ur bf, i’m the og.’ All lowercase. No profanity in titles. We’re trendy and hip in the music biz.” 

“And fucking annoying,” Achilles whispers loudly. Patroclus snorts. 

“Baby cousin!” Apollo exclaims theatrically. And obnoxiously. Like dude, we get it, you got seven new listeners on SoundCloud last month. Joy to the world. All hail Apollo, self-proclaimed god of music. Jackass. 

“I’m literally three years younger than you,” Achilles retorts. “You’re  _ still _ legally not allowed to drink alcohol. Like man, you’re not cool.” 

“Ah, the days of pre-adulthood! Back when I was your age––” 

“When you were our age,” Patroclus interjects, “you were ‘making it big’ by posting tryhard excuses for music videos. Your autotune was even more obvious than your daddy issues.” 

“Damn,” Ares mutters. “Pat’s got  _ heat.” _

Yeah, he does. But hey, there’s a  _ valid reason _ for the salt:

Apollo and Achilles have hated each other since they were 8 and 11, when Apollo brutally murdered Achilles in a game of laser tag. 

(“Technically it wasn’t me!” Apollo always insists. “It was Paris!”

“Paris can’t shoot for shit, you punk ass bitch,” Achilles retorts.) 

Both Achilles and Apollo are too dramatic to acknowledge that this is a negligible event in their lives and the course of human history, so they’ve exacerbated that little childhood argument into a lifetime rivalry. At this point, they kinda deserve it. 

That being said, they really do care about each other. Patroclus walked in on them hugging it out a couple of years ago (Apollo had just gotten rejected by some girl, Daphne or something?). They both paid him twenty bucks not to tell anyone. Honestly, he would’ve accepted, like, a half-melted chocolate bar, but forty bucks works too. 

Anyway, Patroclus doesn’t actually have bad blood with Apollo. It’s just fun to insult him. There’s so much material to pick from––YouTube is a goddamn goldmine—and his affronts aren’t exactly  _ wrong _ . Autotune is to Apollo’s songs as bad movie sequels are to Netflix (i.e., you can’t look anywhere without finding it, even though it actually ruins what could be a positive experience). 

Achilles snickers behind his hand. His free hand, that is. Patroclus realizes that Achilles’s other one has tangled loosely with Patroclus’s own again. 

Apollo seems to follow that same train of thought. He gestures between them. “Oh, defending your boyfriend now?” 

“Yeah, he is,” Achilles says defensively. “Got a problem with it?” 

“No, just glad that the two of you got your  _ fucking _ acts together,” Apollo groans. “You’ve been in love”–– _ nooooooo, _ did he  _ have _ to say it?––“since, like, second grade. I was about to release a new track called ‘quit being oblivious fucks.’ All lowercase.” 

First Ares, now Apollo. Is Patroclus missing something?

“I thought you said you didn’t put profanity in titles.” 

“Fuck you, Achilles, you’re a teenager.”

“At least I’m not  _ you _ as a teenager. You had  _ way _ too much of a superiority complex for a dude who relied on Snapchat filters to hide his acne problem. Come to think of it, I still see a few pimples on your hairline. What’s up with that man, puberty didn’t work out? Too much hair gel? Not using your Proactiv™ face wash every night?” 

That’s something Patroclus will never understand about Achilles and Apollo’s dynamic—they let each other monologue for a minute straight without interrupting. Is it mutual respect? Dramatic effect? Terrible debate skills? Patroclus doesn’t know and, at this point, he’s not sure he wants to. 

“I swear to God, it was one fucking commercial.”

“Y’know, you say ‘fuck’ a lot for being the absolute tween girl icon.” 

“I––” Apollo pauses. “I don’t know how many more times I have to say this. Just because my audience is primarily people of a certain age demographic and gender identity does  _ not _ mean that I am a  _ tween girl icon _ . My work caters to all people, but these happen to be the people who choose to engage with it the most. And I’m grateful for my fans. I appreciate them. I owe them my career.”

See? Again with the monologuing. (Patroclus also notes that in that whole spiel, Apollo didn’t say “fuck” once.)

“Sure.” 

“Leave them alone,” a woman calls from a few yards away—Artemis, Apollo’s twin sister. She’s the cooler twin by far, in Patroclus’s honest opinion. Artemis is a college junior at UCSD. She’s majoring in women’s studies and feminist history, the last Patroclus checked, and she’s on the archery team. Patroclus remembers that both twins used to be really into it while they were growing up. “I streamed your song. It was trash.” 

Apollo’s face lights up, and he runs over to give Artemis a hug, ignoring the jabs. She hugs back enthusiastically, and it’s almost comical to watch because she’s so much shorter. It’s so wholesome that Patroclus can’t resist smiling. For all of Apollo’s faults, he’s never a bad brother or cousin. His first ever song profits went to Artemis’s college tuition, even though she insisted otherwise. It goes without saying that the two of them are super tight; they’re almost inseparable.

Athena, Achilles’s oldest cousin, has walked in with Artemis. She’s thirty-one––one of the youngest professors of ancient military history in the UC system––and has her life together. Patroclus admires that. Even though she’s more reserved than her younger siblings, she still gives Patroclus and Achilles each a quick, friendly hug and congratulates them on their relationship. “Anyone could’ve seen it coming,” she says with a smile. “Good for you.” 

Okay, nice. If they can trick Athena… well. Not a lot of people can do that. It doesn’t even feel like they’re acting, which is even better. 

But that’s also the third time this weekend someone has said something to that effect. Patroclus might be oblivious and emotionally dumb, but he’s not stupid. Either (a) everyone’s just being nice––a likely possibility––or (b) whatever Patroclus is feeling for Achilles right now has always been inevitable. And it’s mutual. 

He’s not sure why, and it’s probably just wishful thinking. But somehow, Patroclus has an easier time believing the latter. 

~~~

The wedding happens. It’s boring as shit. 

The only good part is when Patroclus drops his arm around Achilles’s shoulders (and it’s  _ such _ a couple-y thing but also not unnatural or uncommon for them;  _ God _ , have they always been this oblivious?) and Achilles leans into his side. Patroclus just takes a moment to tune out Zeus’s monotone vows and appreciate the warmth of his best friend beside him. 

Aphrodite catches the bride’s bouquet. Patroclus isn’t superstitious or anything, but yeah, that makes sense. 

The food is great, at least. Greek food is always good, but Zeus is rich enough to get some really quality stuff. Patroclus has talked to the guy maybe twice in his life. He doesn’t seem like the most respectable person, y’know? But he can appreciate food. 

After dinner, there’s the reception. Zeus’s brothers, Poseidon and Hades, elect to ditch their speeches and take advantage of the open bar instead. Athena replaces them, and her speech is so good that Achilles starts crying. 

(“You’re such a sap,” Patroclus says, totally not fondly. He reaches over to wipe a tear off his cheekbone, which is 100% not an excuse to touch Achilles’s face.

Achilles swats his hand away. “You suck.”)

Apollo gives a speech, too. It’s ass. He plays the guitar and sings for the bride and groom’s first dance, though, and it’s actually… really nice. 

Patroclus dances with Achilles. That’s also really nice, but it’s nothing out of the ordinary. They did this a few months ago for prom, anyway. 

About half an hour later, the bussers are collecting their plates of wedding cake, but Achilles has somehow procured another plate filled with brownies and baklava and mini cheesecakes and some pastries he can’t identify. The tablecloth is a horrible shade of yellow, and the centerpieces are possibly the gaudiest display of flowers Patroclus has ever seen. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” Achilles says, squeezing Patroclus’s hand. “We’ll leave in like… ten minutes or so. Watch my food for me? And  _ don’t eat it.” _

“No promises,” Patroclus responds with a smirk, but he nods anyway. As soon as Achilles turns his back, he steals some sort of phyllo pastry. He dips it in honey, and it might be the best thing he’s ever tasted. 

“I thought,” says a familiar voice, sidling up to him. Patroclus almost drops his bread. “That you were told not to steal the food.” 

He takes a bite––food always tastes better after a near-drop experience––swallows, and looks over at Aphrodite. “Don’t tell.” 

She gives off a ladylike snort, which would be an oxymoron but somehow isn’t. “He’s going to know anyway.” 

“How do you know?” 

“I know lots of things, Patroclus,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. And it’s gorgeous, really, in an objective way, but he doesn’t like the mischief he sees there. “Like how to run a company. And how to make crême brulée. And that you aren’t actually dating Achilles.” 

Patroclus freezes in the process of double dipping. “Wh–– that’s ridiculous. Can’t you see how in love we are?” And he’s decided that yes, they are, they’re  _ so totally in love,  _ but as long as Achilles hasn’t come to the same realization, they’re still acting. And as far as Patroclus is concerned, they’re doing a good job of it. 

Aphrodite rolls her eyes. “Yeah, and I can see the  _ pining.  _ You have everyone else fooled.”

Dude  _ no, _ this is stressful. Patroclus debates for a minute about whether or not he should tell her. 

Whatever. There’s nothing to lose at this point. He sighs. “Yeah, how’d you know?” 

She grins. “Honestly, you did a good job. It’s Achilles’s fault––” 

“Obviously.”

“––because he’s just too nervous about everything. You’re not subtle about your feelings for him––” 

“Yeah, I’m aware.”

“––and he likes you too, you know.”

“I know.” 

“Really?”

“Yeah, I… sorta figured it out. Like, an hour ago.” 

Aphrodite pokes him in the space between his eyebrows. “Then you need to  _ act _ on this and  _ talk to him.” _

“I know, it’s just––” 

“Dude,” Aphrodite deadpans. That’s the first time he’s heard her use, like… slang. It reminds Patroclus that, ultimately, she’s just a twenty-something-year-old Californian like the rest of them, even if she seems something like a goddess most of the time. “You know the feeling is mutual.”

“Yeah, but…” he trails off. “What if he doesn’t?”

“Doesn’t what?”

“Know the feeling is mutual.” 

“How would he not?”

Patroclus shrugs. “I think I liked him for a year or so before I decided to acknowledge it.” 

“Then force him to,” Aphrodite responds, rolling her eyes, “by telling him. And I doubt that; I think he’s liked you for a long time and is just too scared to do anything about it.”

And Patroclus wants to scoff and say that it isn’t a possibility––because Achilles is Achilles and he’s nothing if not impulsive and fearless and  _ shit, _ Patroclus just feels so much for this boy. He’s too resigned to argue about it, though, so he brings up a lingering fear instead: “But what if he doesn’t want, like, a relationship?”

“Holy mother of  _ God,” _ interjects another voice. Thetis.  _ “Ask out my damn son already.” _

Patroclus chokes on his third pastry. 

“If I have to hear  _ Patroclus-this-Patroclus-that _ again, I might actually kill someone. You, most likely.” She’s glaring at him. If this is approval, Patroclus thinks, it’s the most aggressive kind he’s ever received. 

Aphrodite nods.  _ “Exactly. _ And I’ll help her.” 

His mind is reeling. “Wait,” he says weakly, turning to Thetis. “Hold up. I thought you hated me.” 

“Obviously not,” Thetis snaps back. “Would you like me to give you a loving embrace to prove it?” 

“Please don’t.” 

Thetis nods. “You have the rest of the weekend to sort this out, or I’ll hire a hitman.” 

Patroclus can’t tell if she’s joking or not, so he nods politely. “Um. Okay, cool.” 

“Now  _ go,” _ Aphrodite declares, pushing the food to the other side of the table. Patroclus mourns the loss, but sacrifices must be made in the interest of finding true love. “And get your man.” 

He sighs, stands up, and accepts a hug from Aphrodite and a handshake from Thetis. 

“It was nice to get to know you this weekend,” Aphrodite tells him. 

“You too,” he responds with a smile. 

“Tolerable,” Thetis says. But her words are light, and the corners of her mouth flit upward, if only for a second. It’s the most pleasant she’s ever been with him, and now Patroclus  _ really  _ doesn’t want to disappoint her. Fuck. When did that happen?

“Yeah, same,” Patroclus responds awkwardly. “Have a great rest of your weekend.” 

“Likewise.” 

And then Patroclus is walking toward their room, looking down at his phone and texting Achilles.  _ Gonna get our stuff down to the car, meet u there _

No response from Achilles, but that’s okay. His phone is probably still on Do Not Disturb from the ceremony. He’ll probably check soon and… is that Apollo?

“...and he looks at you like you hung the  _ fucking _ stars in the sky. I’m going to write you a song called ‘get ur head out of ur ass and make out with ur bf.’ All––” 

“––lowercase, yeah, I got it.” And that’s Achilles’s voice around the corner, chuckling and slightly exasperated, with a slightly watery quality. He almost sounds like he’s close to tears. “He’s–– he’s just  _ smart _ and  _ kind _ and he makes me  _ laugh _ and I don’t know what I’d do without him, and he’s  _ way _ too good for––” 

“Shut up,” Apollo says firmly, but not unkindly. “That’s not true, and you know it. You’re looking for an excuse not to say anything, because you’re scared.” 

Patroclus knows they’re talking about him. He’s not  _ that _ oblivious. And maybe this makes him a little bit giddy on the inside, because  _ he has a shot he has a  _ shot _ he actually has a shot and holy shit this might be the best thing to ever happen to him.  _

“Of course I’m scared,” Achilles shoots back stubbornly. “He’s my  _ best friend––” _

“And he’s  _ in love with you, _ so put both of yourselves out of misery and ask him out!” 

Achilles laughs. “Maybe.” 

Patroclus hears the sound of dress shoes on tiled floors, and then the signature thump of a true SoCal bro hug in action. He waits a second, and that’s when he decides to round the corner and play innocent. 

He makes another forty bucks. 

~~~

The drive back home is just like the drive there. 

Some people would assume otherwise, especially after a weekend of dealing with not-so-unrequited feelings and all that. And of course, some things are different. Achilles is driving this time, and it’s getting darker outside. They changed out of their dress shoes in favor of more casual footwear––Patroclus shuffling into flip flops and Achilles into Adidas Slides™ like the horrible excuse for a person that he is––and they took off their blazers and ties, leaving them in tailored pants and button-down shirts, sleeves rolled up to their elbows and top buttons undone. They’re not filled with the same restless energy as they were earlier, just content to be immersed in some quiet, affectionate conversation and each others’ company. The dusk around them makes Patroclus feel like he’s in a sort of dreamlike state. 

Sure, they’ve both put a name to what they feel for one another. But that feeling has been there the whole time, anyway. It seeps into the spaces between them, just like it always has.

And if Patroclus lets his hand linger on Achilles’s shoulder for a few sporadic moments, it’s typical enough for them to acknowledge it with nothing more than a fond smile or two. 

~~~

It’s 10:22 when Achilles pulls up to Patroclus’s house and parks. And yeah, the drive was three hours long, but Patroclus doesn’t feel like it was long enough.

“You wanna walk down to the beach?” Patroclus asks. It’s only a five-minute walk, and the proximity to the beach is probably his favorite part about where he lives. 

“Yeah, sure,” Achilles says. They get out of the car and start walking down the slight incline of the sidewalk. Their hands brush. For the first time in years, they’re silent. 

So maybe this is where something shifts. 

Patroclus wants to reach out and intertwine their fingers. They’ve been doing it all weekend, after all. It shouldn’t be difficult.

By the time they arrive at the beach, though, Patroclus still hasn’t convinced himself to do it. Why is this so hard, all of a sudden? 

The beach is mostly empty, save for a few groups around bonfire pits. They walk down to the water, slipping off their flip flops and rolling up their pants to wade ankle-deep in the cold water. Patroclus looks to his right, and Achilles is staring out toward the ocean. The moonlight plays off his face. It makes him look almost ethereal. 

That’s when Patroclus knows that he has to say something. And it’s not because he’s going to “miss his chance” or whatever; if not now, he could always do this another time, and everything would work itself out, whether Patroclus told him on the beach or in a classroom or even at his stupid great-uncle’s future eighth wedding. 

That doesn’t matter, though. He doesn’t want to wait. 

“Hey,” he says, breaking the silence between them. He turns to face Achilles.

Achilles turns to face him, too. “Hey.” 

Patroclus takes a breath. “We’re best friends.” Achilles is silent, so he plunges on. “And what I’m about to say might be a little awkward, even though I know––or at least, I’m pretty sure––you feel the same way, so I’m just gonna say it, if you catch my drift?” 

More silence, so maybe Achilles really isn’t catching his drift. But Patroclus is too deep into this and too far gone for Achilles to stop himself.

“Achilles,” Patroclus says. “I think we’re meant for each other.”

There’s no response, and Patroclus feels a sinking weight in his stomach. 

“Sorry, that was probably weird,” he amends. “But… I love you. And I know we say it all the time anyway––sarcastically, platonically, whatever––but I mean, like… romantically.” 

Achilles is still silent. 

Patroclus releases a nervous chuckle. “Dude, would you mind––” 

“Patroclus.” It’s just three syllables, but he loves the way Achilles says his name, like each part of it is worthy of the attention and precision in the deliberate lilt of his voice. Patroclus lets himself look into Achilles’s eyes––the dark, dilating pupils and green irises and thick lashes––and see the pure, unadulterated joy that resides there, and that’s how he knows everything he said rang true. 

And the next thing he knows, Achilles is tilting his head up and cupping Patroclus’s face in his hands. His eyes flicker downward. “Can I––” 

Patroclus nods, and Achilles is reaching up to press his lips to Patroclus’s own with a small, soft laugh. 

This is their second kiss. Their first was when they were in sixth grade and wanted to know what it was like.

(“That was okay,” Patroclus had said. “I don’t know what the big deal is.” 

“It was kinda weird,” Achilles had responded, crinkling his nose.)

Five-and-a-half years later sees them both at seventeen, and this isn’t  _ okay _ or  _ weird _ at all. It’s good. Really,  _ really _ good. Patroclus lets his eyes flutter shut, and he wraps his arms around Achilles’s shoulders, drawing them closer together as a warmth spreads across his body. It’s fireworks, yeah, but it’s also steady and constant and grounding. It just feels like… them. Like home. 

The kiss doesn’t last very long, and they pull away after a few seconds. It’s the best few seconds of Patroclus’s life. 

“I love you,” he tells Achilles breathlessly. 

Achilles smiles, and it’s stunning. “Same.” 

Patroclus pushes him into the surf. 

“ _ Dude,”  _ Achilles cackles. “It’s freezing!” 

Crossing his arms, Patroclus walks over to stand next to him. “I pour my heart out to you,” he sighs melodramatically. “And all I hear back…” He looks down, where Achilles has stealthily seized his ankle. “Achilles, sto––” 

It’s too late, though, and Patroclus is being pulled down into the frigid water. “I hate you, oh my  _ God.” _

Achilles sends him a shit-eating grin. “That’s not what you were saying, like, thirty seconds ago.” 

“I changed my mind,” Patroclus declared. “I’d like to exchange this one––” 

But Achilles kisses him again, and he doesn’t feel the need to finish his sentence. 

“I love you too,” Achilles says. 

After ten minutes or so, they’ll be leaning into each other and shivering and laughing as they trudge their way up the beach, soaking wet in formalwear and carrying their flip flops. Patroclus won’t even think twice before tangling their fingers together. Achilles will look over and say, “Took you long enough,” and Patroclus will tell him to shut up, but he’ll be the happiest he’s ever been. 

They’ll just… be with each other. And the rest will come like the waves rolling behind them. 

**Author's Note:**

> (Title from “Put Your Records On” by Corinne Bailey Ray. I literally wake up to that song every morning because the vibes are so immaculate.)
> 
> So this has been in progress for… a very long time. But hey, it’s finally finished! This was a lot of fun to write, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I end up writing a lot more for this AU. I have some modern!AU headcanons that would totally gel with this setting, so just… keep an eye out, I guess.
> 
> Thank you [@sconelover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover) for all of your help beta-ing! You’ve taken so many of these half-baked sections and shaped them into something worth reading.
> 
> [Link to my Tumblr](https://ashspren-writes.tumblr.com/post/641866759885012992/the-more-things-seem-to-change-the-more-they-stay)


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